


Terra Incognita Continuatio

by Wuchel



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Episode Related, Episode Tag, Episode: s04e20 Terra Incognita, Gap Filler, Gen, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-14
Updated: 2015-07-18
Packaged: 2018-04-09 08:55:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4342145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wuchel/pseuds/Wuchel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a continuation/missing-scene from episode 20 of season four - <em>Terra Incognita</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

> _Disclaimer:_ The characters of _Person of Interest_ don't belong to me. I'm just borrowing them with no intention of gaining any profit.
> 
>  _Acknowledgements:_ Huge thanks to _BullDemon_ for the beta. All mistakes left are all my own.

Fusco had been sitting at his desk at the precinct for the last hour and a half with his eyes alternating between staring at the empty desk of his partner and checking the face of his wrist watch. Tapping out a soft, nervous rhythm with his fingers on his desk, he eventually made up his mind, got up and went over to Riley's desk. He knew he'd be in a world of trouble if Mr. Pleasant were to make an appearance now while he was snooping through his desk. However during the last couple of hours with no word from his partner and an increasingly worried-sounding Professor, Fusco had all but convinced himself that Reese had managed to get into trouble. Serious trouble.

After a cursory glance over the neatly kept desktop hadn't revealed any clues to his partner's whereabouts, he sat down and started to open and browse through John's desk drawers. He hit paydirt on the last one. Extracting the brown file folder form the depths of the drawer, Lionel laid it on the desk in front of him. Even though he hadn't worked the Patterson homicide back in 2009 he still remembered some bits and pieces of it, but not much. He regarded the folder's cover for a few moments, his eyes hovering over his dead partner's name. An unwelcomed sense of foreboding made a shiver run down Fusco's spine. He knew that it could take hours to catch up and sort through all of the information, and something told him John didn't have that much time. Still he opened the folder and leafed through its contents, hoping that something would jump out at him. 

Fusco didn't know how long he had been engrossed in the file when his cell phone rang. Taking it out of his coat pocket, he put it to his ear without checking to see who was calling. He already knew. 

"You heard from him?" Fusco asked, forgoing any greeting.

_"I'm afraid not,"_ Finch replied with a somber tone. Lionel leaned into the chair's backrest, exhaling heavily. _Damn._

_"However I was able to locate the cell tower that last pinged John's cell signal. I was hoping you may have an idea where he might have been headed."_

At first Lionel had not the faintest idea what Reese had been up to in such a remote area when Finch told him the position of the tower. But then something in the detective's mind _clicked_. "Wait," he said and started to leaf through the stack of papers in the folder again. He knew there was something he had read not too long ago that would help them connect the dots. _There_. He vigorously tapped a spot on the paper in front of him. "The Pattersons - they own a cabin about 20 miles north of that tower." Fusco heard a sharp intake of breath and he knew that the Professor and he were thinking the same thing. He was already out of the chair and briskly walking towards the exit when Finch asked, _"You think that's where John went?"_

"I would bet my pension on it. I'm heading out there right now."

There was a rustling on the line, then the sound of muffled voices. After a few seconds Finch was back on with determination in his voice. _"I'm coming with you, Detective."_

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The majority of the drive towards the Patterson's cabin was spent in tense silence, except for Finch giving occasional directions. Even Cuckoo Puffs, who shared the backseat with Bear, was quietly staring out the car window. Usually she seemed to never miss an opportunity to belittle Reese, and her silence now only disconcerted Lionel even more. 

They had been driving through the middle of nowhere for more than half an hour and Fusco was beginning to worry that they were getting lost. The forest around them was so dark that without the lights of the Crown Vic's high beams reflecting off the snow, you wouldn't be able to see your own hand in front of your face. 

"There should be a road branching off to the right in a few hundred yards," Finch said from the passenger seat with his eyes glued to his laptop screen. "The Patterson's cabin should be at the end of it."

"You sure?" Fusco asked, throwing a quick glance sideways before concentrating back on the icy roads. The dashboard's temperature indicator read a 'snug' _-13 °F_ outside temperature and he hoped to God that Reese wasn't wandering around out there somewhere - for both their sakes. 

Finch threw him a look. "Yes, I'm sure. Did you think we were lost, Detective?"

"No," Lionel lied. "It just feels like this road is going to end any second now. Why would anyone want to build a house so far off the beaten track that not even the tax collector would find it?"

"I think you've just answered your own question, Lionel," came Root's voice from the backseat. Fusco's eyes cut to the rear view mirror. She was still staring out the window and what was going through her head was anyone's guess. "It's so remote not even She can hear or see."

Finch stiffly twisted his upper body to look at Root with an unreadable expression and Lionel's eyebrows wrinkled in confusion, but he had long ago given up trying to make sense of anything that came out of Fruit Loop's mouth. His eyes went back to the road and indeed they were approaching a road branching off to the right. 

"How far to the house?" Lionel asked after he'd taken the turn. 

"A couple of minutes," replied Finch. He closed his laptop and folded his hands on top of it. Sitting ramrod-straight, he stared unblinkingly ahead through the windshield, both eager to finally get to the cabin and afraid of what they might find when they got there. 

They followed the curvy road for what that felt like hours. When they finally rounded the last bend, Finch was leaning into the seatbelt, hoping to see signs that his worry had been unfounded. The cabin loomed in front of them - the lights from the inside throwing distorted patterns on the snow around it. The headlights of their car illuminated a silver Mercedes parked in the driveway, and Harold's breath caught in his throat.

He immediately recognized the figure slummed behind the wheel of the Mercedes. He had his door open before the detective had brought the car to a complete standstill and, ignoring both Fusco's and Ms. Grove's pleas to wait, Finch limped as fast as he could towards Mr. Reese.

John didn't seem to move at all and the sense of foreboding that had been plaguing Harold since he first couldn't reach his partner was getting so strong that it made him physically ill. _Please no._

The driver's side window looked like it was covered in a spiderweb of cracks, with a circular hole at its center and Finch - with an ever sinking feeling - immediately knew what had caused it. _Oh, please no._

"John," he said desperately as he pulled open the door, sounding out of breath even though he had only walked a couple of feet. Finch froze. Reese looked ... dead. The headlights of Fusco's car were illuminating John's face in an eerie light - his skin looked too pale and his lips too blue. 

Harold just stood there, still frozen to the spot. His breath was forming thick clouds in the air in front of him. He knew that he should be able to see John's breath, but he couldn't. He kept staring at the still form, thinking, _This can't be happening. Not like this._ And no matter how much he thought that he'd been preparing himself for the next inevitable loss, he now realized that he wasn't prepared at all. He couldn't lose yet another friend.

"I told her that you would come," John's voice was so soft that over the sound of his heavy breathing and the footsteps of Fusco and Ms. Groves in the snow, Finch almost didn't hear it. He still wasn't sure if he hadn't been imagining it, but then Mr. Reese's head turned slightly and his glassy eyes looked up at him - a ghost of a smile playing on his lips. 

"Thank God," Harold breathed, but his joy at finding Mr. Reese alive didn't last long. _Why the hell is he sitting out in the freezing cold?_

"Is he alright?" Fusco asked from behind Harold with his gun drawn, acting as the Professor's shield. Ms. Groves was standing to the side, also with her gun drawn and taking cover behind a tree, reminding Finch that they were still in a potentially dangerous situation. The hacker swallowed, but refused to allow his mind to focus on anything but his friend in front of him. John didn't look alright.

"Are you injured, Mr. Reese?" 

The ex-op's eyes closed and he exhaled heavily before barely nodding his head. He tried moving his left hand, but his strength was rapidly leaving his frozen body. He knew that the cold had so far been his life-saver, as it had slowed down the bleeding. But the signs of his hypothermia reaching life-threatening levels were very rapidly multiplying. Now that help had finally arrived it was just so tempting to stop fighting and just give in to the darkness beckoning at the edges of his vision. 

John let his head fall back against the headrest. He felt Finch bending over him, lifting his coat and taking a sharp breath at the sight of the right side of his white dress shirt drenched in blood. 

"Dear Lord," Harold whispered, his shaking hands undoing the buttons of John's shirt. 

The darkness kept creeping in more and more, and his eyelids got so heavy that it was a struggle for John to keep them open. But there was something he needed to tell them, if only he could remember. 

Fusco leaned back in order to be able to look around the Professor and cursed when he saw the state his partner was in. The detective could see that Reese was struggling to stay awake. "How many shooters?" he asked. He knew that answering his questions would most likely sap the injured man's last remaining energy, but Reese was the only one who could provide them with vital information about what happened here. 

"One," John rasped, grimacing as Harold pressed down on the hole in his shoulder. Even breathing was starting to get difficult. "He's dead."

Fusco relaxed. He had seen the dead body in the snow a few feet up along the walkway cleared through the snow. "Anyone else?"

Reese started to shake his head. Even though his mind was as foggy as a fall morning he knew that - although Carter's presence had felt real enough and had helped him to make it this far - she had only been a figment of his mind. But then he remembered the Patterson kid. "Chase."

"Chase Patterson?" Fusco asked. He looked around but didn't see any signs of a third person being outside in the snow. And since he apparently hadn't come to help Reese that could only mean he wasn't in any condition to do so. They needed to find him, asap. "He still in the cabin?"

John nodded. "Overdose."

Fusco ordered Bear to stay put with the Professor and Reese, while he and Cuckoo Puffs went up to the cabin in hopes of finding Chase Patterson still among the living. 

Using the handkerchief from his breast pocket, Finch did his best to slow the bleeding by pressing it as hard as he could against the hole in John's shoulder. He was having a hard time keeping his panic at bay. There was just so much blood. And John's body felt frigid. 

"I'm sorry," Harold said as John pressed his eyes closed and grunted in pain. Reese forced his eyelids open and regarded Finch's face mere inches from his own. There were deep lines of worry on his friend's face and fear radiated off of him in almost palpable waves. 

"It's okay," John said, his voice just above a whisper. "I'm okay."

"I beg to differ." The heat of Harold's hand pressed over his wound seeped into John's skin, slowly starting to spread. He shivered. "Just hold on, Mr. Reese. We'll get you out of here." 

John just kept looking at Finch with his eyelids drooping and uncontrolled, violent shivers running through his body. They had come for him. Even though he hadn't told them where he was going, they still had gone looking for him. And that's when he realized that Carter had been right and that he had been wrong. He wasn't alone, and even in the end he wouldn't have to be. 

John closed his eyes. He wanted to reassure Finch that everything was going to be okay, but he felt the last of his energy rapidly depleting. He couldn't keep the darkness at bay anymore and his head limply fell forward. "Mr. Reese?" Harold asked, his alarm growing. With one hand keeping the pressure on the ex-op's wound, he used his other to slightly shake the man's uninjured shoulder. "Mr. Reese!" 

There was no response and Finch's blood-slicked hand lifted John's head to the side and groped along his throat - desperate to find a pulse. He breathed in relief when he found one - weak, but still there. They were running out of time. 

He looked up at the sound of footsteps in the snow and saw Fusco and Ms. Groves, carrying an unconscious Chase Patterson between them. Whatever had happened here that night they'd have to find out later. At the moment getting John and Mr. Patterson medical attention was definitely taking priority. And one look at Fusco's and Ms. Groves' faces let him know that he would not have to argue with them. 

Within five minutes they had both injured men transferred to the backseat of Fusco's car and were back on their way to civilization as fast as the slippery roads allowed. It was a tight fit, with Root wedged in the middle of the unconscious men, having taken up Harold's job of keeping pressure on John's wound, and Harold sharing the leg space of the passenger front seat with Bear. 

Holding out his cell phone with one hand in hopes of seeing the first reception bars to appear on its display, Harold held on to the passenger side door for dear life while Fusco navigated the curvy back roads. He almost cheered when his phone chirped, letting him know that it had finally logged on to the nearest cell tower. He immediately started to dial.

"Who are you calling?" Root asked from the backseat. 

"A doctor," Finch replied. "Who hopefully won't mind that I won't be able to pay him as handsomely as before."

Fusco shot the Professor an incredulous glance. "They don't need _a_ doctor. They need an entire trauma team." He returned his eyes to the road. "Besides, we don't need to use your emergency back-up plan. _Detective Riley_ got shot in the line of duty. I'll call it in and I'll be taking him to the nearest hospital. You two, on the other hand, were never here."

Finch was about to object when he realized that the detective was actually right. This improved his calculations about the probabilities of John's and Mr. Patterson's survival immensely. He twisted his upper body to take a look at the men on the backseat. He couldn't see Mr. Patterson as he was sitting right behind his seat. But he had to swallow when he saw his own bloody handprints on John's slack face in stark contrast to his extreme pallor. Now he only needed the confidence that they were going to get them to the hospital in time.

He turned around again, fishing his laptop out from between his legs. There wasn't much he could do for either man at the moment, but he would make sure that Detective Fusco was indeed taking them on the fastest route to the hospital closest to them.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------

Twenty minutes later Finch had directed the detective towards the nearest town with a medical institution. He, Bear and Ms. Groves had gotten out of the car at one of the town's gas station and they were now watching the rear lights of the detective's Crown Vic rapidly grow smaller as Fusco sped the last few miles towards the hospital. 

Harold didn't like having to leave Mr. Reese out of his sight, but he'd just have to rely on the detective to keep him posted about his condition. Harold sighed. Maybe Mr. Reese getting shot could not have been avoided, but he definitely could have received help a lot sooner if he had only let him know where he was going. They both had always tried to keep their distance - each for their own personal reasons - but when had they stopped actually talking to each other? 

Although he couldn't put the blame solely on Mr. Reese. Hadn't he also kept his activities in regards to the Trojan Horse he tried to plant inside Samaritan's system to himself? They were supposed to be a team, but lately their capacity for teamwork seemed to be lacking. He vowed right there that as soon as John was feeling better - and _he was going_ to get better - they would have to have a talk.

Root placed a hand on his shoulder and said, "Don't worry, Harold. He's going to be alright."

Finch looked at her. She had actually sounded sincere, and for once her usually carefree expression was replaced with earnestness. "I thought you didn't really care for him."

Root shrugged, a smile playing around her lips. "I guess he grows on you."

Finch nodded. _Indeed he does._

 

_To be continued..._


	2. Part Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not a medical professional. Actually I know next to nothing about medicine. For this chapter I mainly consulted Drs. Google and YouTube.

Fusco threw a glance at the rear view mirror. It was only a few more minutes until they arrived at the hospital, but he was far from feeling relieved. Both men on the backseat were unconscious and he prayed to anyone who was willing to listen that neither one of them would stop breathing before he had managed to get them help. Lionel especially didn't like the look of Reese. The last time his "partner" had looked that way, he'd been bleeding from two bullet wounds and had wrecked havoc on half the criminals in the city before his body had finally given up. It had been a very close call back then and the detective started to fear that it would be even closer this time.

He sped around the last corner with the tires screeching, sighing in relief as his eyes fell on the well-lit _Emergency_ signs up ahead. "Almost there, partner," he said and his eyes cut back to the rear view mirror. "Just hold on."

The tires screeched again as Fusco stood on the brakes, and brought the car to a halt in front of the emergency room entrance, ignoring the _No Parking Any Time_ signs. He burst through the double doors. "Help!" he yelled, gesturing behind him and breathing like he had just run half a marathon. "I need help out here!"

His dramatic entrance had the effect he was hoping for. Without any further questions the alarmed emergency personal followed him outside to the waiting car and the two injured men inside. 

"What happened?" a nurse dressed in dark blue scrubs asked as she caught her first glance of the two unconscious forms on the backseat. 

"My partner got shot," Lionel answered. "And he was outside in the cold for God knows how long. I think the kid may have swallowed a bunch of these," he said, pulling out an empty prescription bottle that he had found on the living room table. The nurse took the bottle out of his hands and read the label. By now the car was surrounded by a cluster of nurses and doctors in a medical flurry. Two stretchers seemed to appear out of nowhere and the two men were carefully extracted from the backseat. 

Fusco stood in a daze, watching the mayhem of medical precision unfold in front of him and mechanically answering the team's questions as best as he could. 

"Names?"

"John Ree..iley." Fusco just barely managed to cover up his slip. He cleared his throat. "Detective John Riley, NYPD. And Chase Patterson."

"Age?"

"Ehm," Lionel shook his head. He had no idea how old Reese was. It wasn't a subject that had ever come up and he doubted that Mr. Social would have freely shared that information with him anyway. "I'm not sure. Mid-forties, I guess."

Chase Patterson was rushed into the emergency room, while a man in scrubs and a white lab coat was bent over Reese's stretcher, inspecting John's shoulder and listening to his chest with a stethoscope. He grimaced. Fusco swallowed. 

"Okay, let's get this man inside," the doctor said to no-one in particular, but the effect was immediate and the gurney rushed past Fusco. Before it disappeared through the doors, Lionel jolted out of his daze and caught up with his partner.

Somehow the grim looks, the clipped instructions and the urgent vibe he got off the medical team did not instil in him the confidence that he had hoped he'd feel when he finally arrived at the hospital. _It was only one bullet_ , Fusco thought, trying to persuade himself that it wasn't as bad as it looked. _One bullet doesn't stop Wonderboy, right?_

"We need to get his temperature up and this bleeding under control," the doctor - who was now forcing air into John's lungs with an ambu bag - said to the nurse running next to him. 

"But he's going to be okay?" Fusco asked, having a hard time keeping up. The doctor's grey eyes looked up at him for a second before returning his focus to his patient. He didn't answer. 

"He's going to be okay, right?" Lionel asked again, but instead of receiving an answer he was stopped by a gloved palm on his chest. "Sir, you can't come in here. You'll have to wait outside."

Fusco stood there and watched as the gurney with his partner disappeared through another set of double doors that swished closed with a sucking sound. _Maybe one bullet won't stop John Reese_ , a soft voice piped up inside his head. _But maybe the cold will..._

\--------------------------------------------------------------------

"Okay, this guy's a popsicle," Doctor Stevens said as the readouts confirmed his suspicions. He frowned, absolutely not liking what he saw. His patient's core temperature read 28.8 °C, his O2-stats were dangerously low, as was his blood pressure and heart beat. His pupils were dilated and almost non-responsive to light. _Textbook moderate, bordering on severe hypothermia_ , his brain provided, immediately seeking out the right entry of the medical encyclopaedia Stevens had spent years creating inside his mind. A life-threatening condition in its own right, and coupled with severe blood loss from that gunshot wound and the detective's prognosis was far from encouraging.

"Alright, we need warm and humidified oxygen. Lydia," the doctor said to a nurse next to him. "I want two lines started with heated saline and a unit of O-negative. We need heating-packs, blankets and heat lamps."

His team was already busy cutting through the detective's clothes, removing the blood-stained dress shirt. Looking at the amount of blood soaked into the formerly white fabric, Stevens cursed under his breath. The hypothermia probably kept the man from completely bleeding out, as his heart rate had considerably slowed down. But now it was the greater threat to his patient's survival. He prayed that they didn't have to deal with internal bleeding, and hoped that administrating fluids, and applying tight compression dressings over the entry and exit wounds would be enough to slow - or preferably stop - the bleeding until they were able to stabilize him. Until then treating the wound would have to wait. 

Keeping a watchful eye on the detective's slow, yet thankfully steady heart rhythm, the doctor and his team proceeded to tightly wrap the detective's freezing body in layers of warm blankets and heating packs until only Riley's pale face - mostly covered by a fogged up oxygen mask - was left visible. Stevens stepped back, and checked that the IV's were running freely. 

The team watched the readouts on the monitor above the patient's head, willing the numbers of the core temperature to rise. But they didn't. Stevens checked his watch. It had been nearly ten minutes since they began the attempt at rewarming their patient. The detective's vital signs were still dangerously low. Although so far he had not shown any signs of cardiac dysrythmia, Stevens was sure it was only a matter of time now. They needed to get his temperature up, and apparently, warm blankets weren't cutting it.

He peeled back the layers around his patient's shoulder wound and noted with satisfaction that the bleeding had nearly stopped. It made his next decision a lot easier. 

"Alright, let's try something else. Prepare for gastric lavage." As his team regrouped for the procedure, he positioned himself behind his patient's head and removed the oxygen mask. An intubation kit was placed in his waiting hand, and he quickly inserted a tube into the unconscious man's trachea to secure his airway. As he worked, a tech measured and lubricated a length of tubing long enough to reach his stomach. 

"Turn him on his left side," Steven's ordered, watching the heart monitor for signs of stress. 

With the detective positioned and his vitals steady enough to continue, the doctor proceeded to carefully slide the prepared tube through Riley's mouth and into his stomach. Satisfied with its placement after making sure the tube had gone down the intended pipe, he accepted a large syringe of saline from the nurse, attached it to the end, and slowly depressed the plunger. As the warmed fluid was forced into Riley's stomach, it transferred its heat directly into his frozen body. When the syringe was empty, Stevens drew back on the plunger to extract the liquid, and then pressed it again once it was full. He repeated this process for several minutes until one of the nurses announced a change in his patient's temperature.

Stevens looked up at the monitors. "29.1," he read out loud, and expelled a breath. Although the heart rate remained slow, the O2 stats and blood pressure had improved slightly. Riley was far from being out of the woods, but what the doctor saw made him cautiously optimistic. He held his hand out for a fresh syringe of warmed fluids. "Let's hope he keeps it up."

 

_To be continued..._


	3. Part Three

The conversation with the Captain hadn't exactly gone as Lionel had expected. Considering that all he could offer to the _what_ and _why's_ about what had happened at the Patterson cabin was a whole bunch of _I don't know's_ , he had expected her to chew both his ears off. Instead she had actually sounded concerned about Riley, ordering Fusco to stay where he was while she handled the coordination with the local boys at the crime scene. Of course eventually she'd expect more detailed information from him, but now his only concern was to be with his partner. 

Lionel's eyebrows had nearly disappeared within the curls of his hair when she had said this. So far he'd only thought of their new Captain as a woman who knew exactly where to tighten the screws, and with absolutely no tolerance for lazy police work and bullshit. But then again, he shouldn't have really been surprised. If there was one code any officer in the NYPD went by it was _"We take care of our own"_. John Riley was one of the boys in blue, and Fusco couldn't help but snort at that. If the Captain knew that only a few years ago, John had been on the NYPD's and the FBI's Most Wanted lists, she'd be playing quite the different tune. _Now he's probably going to get a medal for this_ , Lionel thought, again snorting at the irony. 

He checked his watch. It had been almost three hours since he'd seen his partner disappear behind that set of double doors. He'd gotten word on Chase Patterson's condition from his doctor over an hour ago. The kid was going to be okay and was currently resting. 

Fusco fidgeted on his chair and knew that he couldn't deny it anymore. He was getting really worried for his erstwhile tormentor. And apparently he wasn't the only one. Fishing out his vibrating cell from his jacket's inside pocket, he glanced at the display. _Unknown number._

"Yeah, Finch," he said, putting the phone to his ear.

_"Any word, Detective?"_ Finch's voice was quiet. Immaculate as always. Yet Fusco could easily picture all too well the other man sitting in a tense posture - his eyebrows raised in concern - while his fingers tapped out a silent, nervous rhythm on the desk in front of him. 

Fusco sighed. "No. Nothing yet."

There was silence on the other end. The Professor was probably trying to decide whether no news was good or bad news in this case. 

_"And Mr. Patterson?"_ Finch eventually asked. 

"He's going to be alright. They pumped his stomach and he's now resting. I'm hoping to be able to talk to him soon. Make some sense of this mess."

_"That would be desirable,"_ Finch replied, and Fusco snorted at the dry understatement. _"Will you let me know as soon as you hear something?"_

Lionel had already promised Finch that he would - twice - but he just nodded again. "Sure thing, Finch."

_"Thank you, Detective."_

Fusco nodded again, even though the other man couldn't see him, but Finch had already terminated the connection before he remembered that. Putting his phone away, Lionel leaned back in the surprisingly comfortable chair and expelled a breath. _C'mon, Wonderboy_. He closed his eyes, feeling the hours of an extremely long day greedily taking their toll. 

The sound of heels heading determinedly down the linoleum hallway towards him jerked Fusco out of his unintended doze. He blinked bleary eyes at his approaching Captain, doing a double-take when he realized that she was escorted by several officers from their precinct. 

He silently shook his head when she asked him for any news and accepted the cup of coffee she offered with a grateful smile. After she filled him in about what little information the investigation at the cabin had revealed so far, silence fell over the group. 

Fusco's eyes roamed over the grim faces that had joined him for this vigil. He realized he shouldn't have been surprised at their presence. An officer was down, and the NYPD took care of their own.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------

The vigil went on for another hour. One very awkward hour that made it clear that the guys from the precinct were only there because it was more or less expected of them; to show support when one of their own needed it. None of them knew John Riley. Not really. Sure, they had seen him around, heard of his ... unusual methods, but not one of them could claim to ever have chatted with the guy. 

Fusco sighed in relief when the doctor - who he earlier had seen bent over Reese's still form - walked through the double doors and headed their way. He saved him from any more awkward small-talk and even more awkward silences. It wasn't like Lionel wasn't a social guy, but there was always this fear of saying too much or too little - just enough to raise suspicion - when asked about his partner. And talking sports - his go-to topic in any conversation - just didn't feel right under these circumstances. 

Lionel was out of his chair the moment he laid eyes on the doctor and his fellow officers soon followed suite. 

"Family of John Riley?" the doctor asked, searching the faces of the small crowd in front of him. 

"He doesn't have any family," Fusco said, stepping towards the medic and shaking his hand. "I'm his partner. Lionel Fusco."

"And I'm Captain Moreno," she also stepped forward, taking charge and shaking the doctor's hand as well. "How's my detective?"

Doctor Stevens looked around the gathered group, uncomfortable to discuss private information in public. "Would you mind following me to where it's more private?"

Fusco's stomach lurched. _That doesn't sound good_. Even though the doctor had clearly meant for only the Captain to follow, he was able to tag along without question. They stepped around the corner into the next corridor, and Stevens turned to face them. Fusco held his breath. _C'mon, Wonderboy_.

"Detective Riley was admitted with a gunshot wound to the right shoulder and in a state of severe hypothermia. The bullet wound was a clean through-and-through and we were able to stop the bleeding, raise his temperature and stabilize him." He paused and looked at the anxious faces in front of him. "He was lucky. Not much longer and either the cold or the blood loss would have killed him."

Fusco shared a look with his Captain, then turned back to the doctor. "So, he's going to be alright?"

The doctor nodded. "He'll be groggy for a few days, but with plenty of rest and barring any complications, I expect him to make a full recovery."

Both Fusco and the Captain expelled a breath in relief. "Thank you, Doctor," Moreno said and they shook the man's hand again. 

"I'll let you know when you'll be able to see him." 

Fusco couldn't stop the huge grin from spreading across his face, even if he had wanted to. _I knew one bullet wouldn't stop him_. The Captain squeezed his shoulder gently. "Go, tell them the good news. I'll go and see if Mr. Patterson is able to answer a few question now."

"Thank you," Fusco said and leaned against the wall. "I think I'll just take a moment."

Moreno nodded and smiled in understanding. "Okay. Take your time."

The moment the Captain disappeared around the corner, Fusco pulled out his cell and hit speed dial. "Hey, Finch," he said - the huge smile still on his face. "Good news."

 

_To be continued ..._


	4. Part Four

John didn't drift to awareness. There was no period of slowly waking up, slipping in and out of consciousness. One moment he was unconscious, and the next he was wide awake, blinking his eyelids at the blurry world around him. He was confused at first, not remembering where he was or what had happened before he lost consciousness. Wherever he was, it was quiet except for a faint, rhythmic beeping. He wrinkled his nostrils. Something was softly blowing warm air into his nose and he automatically moved his arm to reach up to his face. Pain shot through his right shoulder, effectively stopping the motion before his hand had even lifted off the surface it was resting on. The slight queasiness he had felt the moment he'd woken up morphed into full-blown nausea, and even though the room was kept at a moderate temperature and he was covered in blankets, he shivered. It was just a short bout of the chills, but it and the pain caused his breath to hitch and the beeping to quicken its rhythm.

Hearing the rustling of clothes and the scrapes of a chair being pushed back, John turned his head, still blinking at the world. Someone had been sitting in a chair beside the window, and now the person's silhouette was approaching the bed. Instinct told John to tense - to get ready to fight. 

"Hey Sleeping Beauty," Fusco's gruff voice said. "About time you woke up."

John stared at the detective with bleary eyes and his eyebrows wrinkled in confusion. "Lionel?" he rasped, his voice sounding unnaturally rough even to his own ears. "What are you doing here?" 

"What am _I_ doing here?" Lionel's eyebrows rose in incredulousness. "I'm here watching out for my partner, but I guess you wouldn't know anything about that, would you?"

Reese blinked at Fusco and his irritation. He tried to remember what had happened. Obviously he was in a hospital. Obviously he had gotten hurt. Obviously he had pissed off Lionel Fusco. His brain just felt more than sluggish - unable to take on input and to compute output. His thought process was frozen. 

Frozen. The moment he thought that word, memories started to pour back into his consciousness - Carter's case, following the Patterson kid, getting shot, freezing to death and ... Carter. He didn't believe in ghosts or in an afterlife, but her being there with him in that car... it had felt so real. He averted his eyes, getting lost in the memory.

"Are you in any pain? Do you need me to get the doctor?" Fusco's voice had lost all irritation, and was laced with worry instead. 

_"There are people who care about you."_

John's eyes snapped back to Lionel's worried face. The night before he hadn't been so sure that Carter was right. Part of him hadn't wanted it to be true - the part that still felt that keeping people at arm's length was his best option. But now, confronted with evidence, it was difficult to deny the validity of her words.

"No." He shook his head. "I'm fine." He fiddled with the remote control to raise the head of the bed so he could sit up. His throat was sore and dry as paper, making the sips of tepid water from the cup beside his bed taste like crystal clear spring water. He wasn't technically speaking the truth. His shoulder was throbbing and he still felt slightly nauseous, but he could handle the pain and the water helped to calm his stomach.

"Good," Fusco said. "I'm glad to hear that." He sounded sincere and John threw him a sideways glance. Pulling the chair closer to the hospital bed, Lionel sat down and crossed his arms in front of his chest. "Now you wanna tell me what the hell you were trying to prove yesterday?"

"I wasn't ...," John started but Lionel didn't let him finish - the irritation securely back at the wheel.

"Of all the stupid stunts you've pulled over the years...," he trailed off, shaking his head. "I don't really care what you do when you moonlight for the Professor, but you were on the job last night, working a case. I'm your partner," he said, stabbing a finger in Reese's direction. "I'm supposed to have your back. But I can't do that if you insist of continuing that Lone Ranger act of yours. Guess what? It's going to get you killed."

John once more averted his gaze, but he could still feel Fusco's stare drilling into the side of his head. On reflex his face turned stoic - his well-practiced expression aimed at shutting people up and out.

Flashes of memory from the conversation he knew he couldn't have had with Joss the night before shot through his mind. She'd called him out on his bullshit. True, he had survived his tours with the Army and the CIA, and according to his selfish reasoning it had been because - unlike everyone else he had seen getting killed - he didn't carry around a picture of the girl, or the friends, or the family that represented the life he desperately wanted to get back to. Because ... he didn't _have_ a life. 

During all the years John had spent in the service he had managed to convince himself that it didn't bother him. That he didn't _need_ it. That it was too late for him anyway. And in the process he had rudely pushed away the people who were offering him a second, third or even fourth chance. But losing those people still hurt - a lot. And the regret he felt for choosing that path was crippling at times.

_"Just gotta let them in."_

"You're right," John said softly, agreeing both to Joss's and Fusco's arguments. "It was stupid."

"I don't give a crap about your bullshit. The next time ...," Fusco stopped and blinked - his brain processing what John had said. "Wait? What?"

Reese turned to look at the detective, cracking a smile at Lionel's dumbfounded expression. "I said, I'm sorry. It was stupid of me to not tell you where I was going. It won't happen again."

Fusco's mouth dropped open and he gaped at John. Of all the directions he had thought this discussion would go - from stoic silence to a surly _"Leave me alone"_ \- an apology he did not expect. And Wonderboy actually really seemed to mean it. "Are you sure you are alright?" Lionel asked, squinting his eyes in suspicion. "Sounds like you have a fever."

"Lionel," John said exasperated, turning the one word into a warning and threat like only he could do. 

"Alright, alright." Lionel put his hands up. "Apology accepted. But it better really not happen again. You had us worried. Especially the Professor."

Reese winced. He remembered Harold eagerly asking him if he should join him, readily offering his assistance and sounding disappointed when he had declined. "Yeah," he said slowly, as if in thought. "I probably should apologize to him, too." 

Fusco's eyebrows rose again, but he stopped himself from once again asking if Wonderboy was feeling okay. _He must be on some amazing drugs_ , he thought, and crossed his arms over his chest and nodded. "Yes. You should."

Shooting the smug detective a dark look, John leaned back into his pillow and expelled a breath. He knew he had been lucky. He remembered hanging on by a mere thread when Harold and Fusco had found him. Had Root been there too? He thought he remembered her there, but he wouldn't be surprised if he had imagined it. They had found him _just_ in time.

"How did you find me?" he asked. He was honestly curious about that, since he certainly hadn't made it easy for them. 

"I found the Patterson case file in your desk," Fusco replied, looking uncomfortable for admitting to having snooped through his partner's desk and daring him to give him crap about it. But John just nodded for him to go on. "Figured the answer would be in there. Read the damn thing three times, and when Finch called with the location of the cell tower your phone had last pinged off -," he shrugged. "The cabin seemed the only logical choice. We found you and the Patterson kid more dead than alive, rushed you to the hospital where they thawed you and pumped the kid's stomach. He's okay, by the way."

"That was good work, Lionel. Thank you." Even though his right arm was kept immobile in a sling and he had to awkwardly twist his torso, John offered his left hand for Fusco to shake. Surprised and a little unsure at first, the detective's face lit up with a grin as he grabbed the offered hand. "Anytime. Partners, remember?"

Reese nodded. "Also thanks for looking out for me," he said, waving his hand to indicate the hospital room and the fact that Fusco seemed to have kept vigil at his bedside. 

"Oh, I was just hiding in here from the guys. And speaking of which," Fusco said, getting to his feet, "I promised to let them know when you were awake."

"What guys?" With a puzzled look Reese watched Fusco head towards the door. 

_He's going to love this_ , Lionel thought amused. "Half the precinct is waiting outside. I'm going to let them know that they can see you now," he said, having a hard time keeping a straight face at the ex-op's deer-in-the-headlights-look. He was through the door before John could say anything, but turned around to stick his head through the crack. "By the way. Whatever drugs they've got you on? You should consider taking them long term."

 

_To be continued..._


	5. Part Five

After a day and a half of sitting through awkward visits from co-workers and "friends" whose names Reese mostly didn't even remember, he had been sure that he had to get out of the hospital - and fast. Although reluctant at first, the young doctor agreed to let him out of his clutches the next day, under the condition that he would take it easy and refrain from working for the next couple of weeks. John - with his most trustworthy expression - promised he would, although he never - not for a second - entertained the idea of keeping that promise. He just didn't do idle well.

He'd taken a cab home. The one hour ride turned into two, thanks to the still icy roads and the regular mad New York traffic. His shoulder had started to ache after an hour, but he chose to ignore the bottle of pain meds in his coat pocket that the doctor had insisted on prescribing. As pain went, John knew from experience that he could endure much worse. He also didn't like the fact that they made him feel drowsy, and unfocused. 

John hadn't been back to his apartment more than ten minutes - just enough time to do his habitual perimeter sweep and to get rid of the sling the doctor also had insisted on - when his door bell rang. 

Puzzled, John picked up his spare gun out of habit and walked toward his apartment's door. He hadn't told anyone that he was back in town, and he doubted that it was one of his neighbors, since the unspoken rule of his apartment complex apparently was _Mind your own business_.   
His eyebrows climbed his forehead as he looked at his visitor through the spyhole. But then, in a way he wasn't really that surprised. He stuffed his gun inside his waistband and opened the door.

Finch looked at him in silence for a few seconds with a happily tail-wagging Bear beside him, before he said, "May we come in?" 

John nodded, pushing the door farther open to allow for Bear and Harold to enter. "You didn't have to come all the way out here, Finch," he said, closing the door behind him. "I was about to go to the subway anyway." 

"Bear wanted to make sure you were alright," Harold said, the dog greeting his master with undisguised exuberance as the hacker looked John over. With his unusually untamed hair and pale - too pale - complexion, his partner didn't look like he should be going anywhere now or in the near future. Finch raised an eyebrow. He'd hacked into the hospital's medical files. Usually he respected his partner's privacy, but since only a few days prior John had demonstrated that volunteering information wasn't on his mind lately - or never when it came to his injuries, Harold had felt surprisingly little scruple when he broke through the hospital's laughable firewalls. 

He honestly had come to just check on John, having felt guilty for not visiting at the hospital. With the police presence there he hadn't wanted to risk attracting unwanted attention. He'd wanted to save the conversation he had promised to have with his partner for a later time - when John had a chance to rest some more. However seeing him now, brushing off his close encounter with death as usual, he knew that he shouldn't put it off. "Besides, aren't your doctor's orders to take it easy and rest?"

Reese took his eyes off Bear and looked at Harold. The hacker had kept his tone light - nonchalant even - but looked both worried and displeased at the same time. 

He'd had time to think the night before, as he lay there in his hospital bed finally alone after what seemed like half of the precinct had stopped by. Having too much time and nothing to do but think was another reason he had wanted to get out and back into action as fast as possible - to keep the thinking from turning into brooding. 

He'd thought some more about what Carter said. If he had ever wondered if Harold Finch only viewed him as a disposable henchman or actually cared about his well-being, he just needed to recall the night the other man had driven into that parking garage and right into the CIA's trap, risking his own life to save his "henchman". He'd warned Finch back then that caring too much would mean getting himself killed. However their vocation would likely kill them all eventually anyway. And all he would have to show for his life were a multitude of bad decisions followed by actions he wasn't at all proud of. 

And then he clearly remembered something Harold had said to him once. _"I know absolutely everything about you, Mr. Reese."_  
They hadn't known each other long, and back then John had been sure that this weirdo was full of shit. He was so deep into black operations back during his CIA days that he didn't even know everything about himself. Like why he had done the things he'd done under the excuse of following orders. But now, after having seen what Harold Finch was capable of, he didn't doubt for a second that Harold knew. 

And that was the difference between Harold and the others he had tentatively started to see as _real_ friends. Joss could only have had an inkling of an idea of what he had done during his time with the CIA. She'd seen the war they were fighting and caught glimpses of the evil on both sides of the trenches. But he doubted that her mind would have been able to conjure up scenarios dark enough that they could match with what he had witnessed and participated in himself. At least he hoped that she couldn't have - for her sake.  
Fusco had the smarts to know that Reese was dangerous and a person not to mess with. But he seemed to live by the credo of ignorance is bliss - not wanting to know what was wearing on John's conscience. And Iris? Hell, she'd probably run away screaming if she had any idea what he was capable of. 

But Harold knew. Knew what he had done. Knew what he was.

Yet despite that Finch had still offered him a job, and later his trust. And when John had finally allowed himself to think about it, he'd realized that despite his efforts of keeping a professional distance, this partnership between Harold and he was one of the truest friendships he'd ever had. And he was treating it like crap. 

John looked at Harold. Finch's eyes were daring him to deliver his usual brush-off - that he was fine and/or that he'd had worse. The sentences actually lay on the tip of his tongue. It was a reflex by now and he had to consciously swallow them down. Besides it being obvious that Harold already knew what his doctor's orders were, he deserved the truth. Always had, the ex-op conceded with a grimace.

"Yes, they are," he said, and his lips briefly pulled into a small smirk at the look of puzzled surprise on his partner's face. "I will try to take it easy" - _to some extent_ , he mentally added - "as long as our situation allows it. But I wanted to talk to you. In person. And no, it could not wait."

Finch raised a sceptical eyebrow. "Well, I guess it's good that I stopped by then." 

"Yes." John nodded and smiled. Well, he tried to, but a sudden bout of nervousness at Finch's still disapproving expression had surely turned it into a grimace. There had only been a few people in his life he actually cared what they thought about him. Finch was right there at the top of that very short list, and he had every right to be both angry and wary of him.   
They stood in silence - John still by the door with Bear, whose head was swivelling back and forth between his two favorite humans, still at his side. 

Finch's second eyebrow joined his first and he cocked his head to the side as far as his stiff neck allowed. This was an interesting development. One he certainly had not expected. He'd expected that he would do - as usual - all the talking, while John would let his words bounce off that thick skull of his. And yet, he wondered if he should actually be worried. For a brief moment John had looked nervous, and as the awkward silence continued, Harold couldn't help but wonder if coming here was such a good idea after all. 

Realizing that they were still standing in the tiny, cramped hallway of his apartment, John jerked a hand forward, indicating for Harold to go ahead to the living room. "Would you like something to drink?" he asked, remembering his manners. Finch half turned and Reese could tell by the look on his friend's face that he was about to decline his offer. He remembered then that he'd purchased a box of Sencha Green Tea the very first time he'd gone grocery shopping as Detective John Riley. He hadn't been entirely sure why he bought it, and he would never admit that he might have given in to sentimental reasons. He didn't drink tea, and the odds that Professor Whistler would ever stop by the Detective's apartment were slim to none back then. The box had been sitting right beside his stash of coffee the entire time though, apparently just waiting for this moment. This time the smile on his face was real when he said, "I've got tea."

Again Harold raised an eyebrow. This time in surprise. He knew that Mr. Reese preferred coffee. He couldn't even remember seeing him drink tea once, and the significance of its presence in his apartment wasn't lost on Finch. "Sencha?" he asked, already knowing what the answer would be.

John nodded, and Finch replied that, yes he would like a cup very much. 

Harold took off his coat and looked around John's apartment while the ex-op and Bear were in the small kitchen, preparing his cup of tea. It wasn't as grand and luxurious as the loft had been. But then again, an NYPD detective could have never afforded the loft or anything similar to it. However, knowing John's background, Harold was sure that the former soldier was just as satisfied with this two-room-kitchen-bathroom apartment as he had been with the loft. Maybe even more so. The living room was meticulously clean. It was also missing any sorts of decoration and completely lacking any personal touch. 

Taking a seat at the small table at what he took as the dining area of the living room, Harold briefly wondered where John was hiding his stash of guns these days. Barring any secret compartments, the apartment didn't seem big enough to have a walk-in closet for Reese to convert. John - with Bear on his heels - returned from the kitchen with a steaming cup of tea in one hand and a glass of water in the other. "One sugar," he said, placing the cup in front of his guest and sitting down on the only other chair opposite of Harold. 

"Thank you," Finch said and smiled politely. He took a sip of his tea. It was good. Apparently John had even bought his favorite brand, although he couldn't remember when he'd told the ex-op which his favorite was. There would have been a time when all sorts of alarm bells would have gone off at that revelation, as he would have regarded the ex-op's obvious snooping as a breech of his privacy. Now he was actually flattered that John had picked up on and remembered that small, yet for him very important detail. 

However he hadn't come to drink tea. Putting down his cup, he interweaved his fingers and placed his hands like a protective wall in front of him on the table. Harold was both dying to know and apprehensive about what Mr. Reese had wanted to talk to him about that was so important that it couldn't wait. He expected the ex-op to start talking any second now, However John's focus was on Bear, who had sat down beside him and put his head on his alpha's thigh. _Apparently I'm not the only one who's still reeling from the events from two nights ago_ , Harold thought as he watched his partner petting the dog. Bear's eyes were glued on John, and Finch didn't even want to begin to imagine how the dog would have reacted if they had been too late that night. 

"He was worried about you." Harold hadn't meant to say these words. They had slipped out at the sight in front of him, but now that they were out there he felt they weren't enough. "He wasn't the only one, you know?"

John stopped scratching Bear behind his ears, and his eyes became unfocused. Harold recognized that body-language. It was classic John-Reese-stonewalling, and at that moment it was just infuriating. Harold's fingers tightened around themselves and he took a breath. Whatever Mr. Reese had wanted to talk about could wait. Harold had also come to talk to his frustratingly stubborn partner, and he had no intention of letting himself be discouraged this time. But before he could launch into the speech he'd been preparing for the last day, John pre-empted his attempts. 

"I know," Reese said, and whatever Harold had been about to say died on his lips. He stared at the man opposite him completely dumbfounded. John looked at him then and Harold was even more taken aback at the open and earnest expression on the usually closed-off face. "I should have let you know where I was going. But the case..." He looked down at his hands and swallowed before looking up again. "It was Carter's."

"You don't have to explain." Harold already knew this and had already figured out what the ex-op's intentions had been. He also knew that talking about the late detective was difficult for John. For both of them.

"Yes, I do have to explain," John countered, again surprising Harold. "I wanted to work this case on my own. To close it on my own. I wanted to do this for her."

Harold nodded. "I understand." He truly did. His reason to work the Numbers wasn't that much different after all.

"But not telling anyone where I was going was stupid and reckless and I apologize. I'm sorry for causing you worry and I promise it won't happen again." The ache in John's shoulder was slowly reaching more intolerable pain-levels, and the thought of taking one or two of those pills in his coat pocket became more and more appealing. But he hadn't said everything he wanted to say yet. And he wanted his mind to be clear. "I also wanted to thank you for saving my life and for having my back. I know that lately it may not have seemed like it, but I'm still grateful you offered me this job."

Harold's eyes dropped to the table top. He had to admit that he had been wondering about John's motivation recently, and hadn't been sure if he was just sticking around because the Machine had foiled his attempt at leaving or because he just didn't have any other options. It certainly couldn't have been because of all the "fun" they had had. "The last couple of years have been difficult," he said - a subtle concession that he would have understood if Mr. Reese had changed his mind about his motivations.

John leaned forward, bracing his forearms on the table and clasping his hands together. "They have been difficult for _all_ of us."

Harold looked back up at him and for a second everything - the losses they had suffered, the guilt, the sacrifices, the pain - was clearly projected on the hacker's features as he nodded. It was funny. He wanted to have this conversation with his partner for a while now, but the time had never seemed right, or he just hadn't know how to begin. And now, when they were actually _having_ that conversation he couldn't trust his voice. 

Straightening and leaning into his chair's backrest, John smiled a mirthless smile. "The way the things look, that won't change anytime soon." He paused, wishing that he'd poured himself something stronger as he tried to figure out how to phrase what was on his mind. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been so absolutely open and truthful about his feelings to anyone. Even when speaking with his therapist he'd omitted most of what was really going on in his mind. _The last time was probably with Jess._ As usual thinking of Jessica sent pangs of regret through his mind. He'd been wrong to push her away, he knew that now. No, he'd always known, but he was ready to admit it now. And it had taken slowly freezing to death for him to allow himself to realize that he was making the same mistakes again.

"It's taken me a while," he eventually continued, his gaze on the glass of water he was absentmindedly rotating it in front of him, "but I've finally come to the conclusion that in this line of work no matter what I - we¬ - do to try to prevent it, loss is still inevitable. And I don't know about you, but I don't want to have any more regrets." He looked up at Finch, again wishing that he'd poured himself something stronger than water, yet he decided to just go for it and raised his glass. "To friendship?" 

Finch's eyes widened and for a second John actually feared that he had gone too far, forcing the recluse into something he wasn't ready to commit. But then - to John's relief - the look of shocked astonishment fled from Harold's face. He nodded and a tentative grin started to spread across his face as he picked up his cup of tea and mirrored John's gesture.

"To friendship."

 

_The End._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Thank you all for reading. I hope you liked my little add-on, and please, feel free to let me know ;)_

**Author's Note:**

> Comments will be highly appreciated!


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